


The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors

by JackEPeace



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Halloween AU, horror movie AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackEPeace/pseuds/JackEPeace
Summary: In honor of the 31 days of Halloween, here are 31 ficlets inspired by 31 of my favorite horror movies! (featuring both Skimmons and Fraida ficlets!)





	1. Zombieland

**Author's Note:**

> So I love horror movies and Halloween (I mean October) is the perfect time to get a little self-indulgent and write some horror movie AU ficlets, right?! 
> 
> The idea is that the ficlets will alternate between Skimmons and Fraida but some of the ficlets feature both ships because some movies/ideas work better with more characters! I'll denote the pairing (and movie) at the beginning of each ficlet. 
> 
> I want each ficlet to be between 1,000 and 2,000 words so hopefully I can stick to my guns and just write something short each day! 
> 
> Since these stories are based on horror movies, here is your basic disclaimer that character deaths and mentions of blood and violence will pop up from time to time, though I'm going to try not to get too graphic with any of the stories. Also certain spoilers might apply? Depending on how I write each AU. 
> 
> Also what's a horror movie without a great soundtrack? I'm going to try and include a song with each ficlet, one from the movie or that reminds me of the movie! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Zombieland -** Skimmons

 

**Soundtrack Recommendation:** [Salute Your Solution by The Raconteurs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hs8gAmlthkU)

 

“So, Daisy Johnson,” Jemma intones in a serious voice, as close to the newscasters that she remembers from when the news was actually running, “you finally made it to California. What’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

“Well…” Daisy draws the word out, as though contemplating her options, “probably sleep for twenty-four hours straight.”

Just to punctuate her point, she takes a running leap and jumps onto the king-sized bed in middle of the room and, of course, it feels like heaven. She even bounces just a little, sighing contentedly as she sinks down onto the mattress. And is that…ugh yes...a _down_ comforter. “Jemma, you have to come feel this,” Daisy sighs, patting the space on the bed beside her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt anything so amazing.”

Jemma smirks but she climbs into bed beside Daisy. “I’m sure you’ll say the same thing when you finally take a shower.”

Daisy’s eyes grow wide. “A shower,” she breathes. “Do you think the water still works? Do you think it’s still hot?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jemma says. “Look at this place. I mean compared to the other places we’ve seen, it looks practically perfect.”

Daisy had thought the same thing when they’d finally settled on this house. Or, well, house might not be the right word to describe it. Mansion is far more fitting, given the three stories and the basement level that Coulson and Ace are currently exploring. She feels a little nervous being separated from Ace, seeing as they haven’t been apart since this whole apocalypse and zombie drama started but she trusts Coulson enough to hope that Ace is safe with him in this large, perfect, unexplored house.

“I mean…it’s a little weird, right?” Daisy says, frowning slightly as she studies Jemma. “Maybe it’s just not as bad over here.”

Jemma doesn’t say anything but Daisy can see the skepticism in her face. They’ve driven halfway across the country and they’ve seen enough death and destruction to know that it’s bad everywhere. Honestly, Daisy hadn’t even realized that there were other people still in the world until she’d run into Coulson and then, days later, Jemma. She’d never intended to join up with a group; there were too many unknown factors when you added other people into the equation and her priority was Ace and trying to get him to California and his aunt’s house. She’d promised Mike that she would look after him. But something about Coulson and Jemma…it had seemed easier to let her guard down around them. With Coulson, Daisy had just desperately wanted someone else to take charge for a little while, to look after them and do the protecting. And with Jemma…well.

With Jemma, her thoughts are definitely not zombie apocalypse related.

“Maybe we should investigate the shower situation,” Daisy says, though she makes no move to leave the bed.

Jemma nods. “Maybe we should.” She doesn’t move either.

Daisy smiles. “Maybe in a minute,” she relents. “I’m just so freaking comfortable.”

“It has been a long time since we slept in a bed, hasn’t it?” Jemma says with a sigh of longing. “Not that I haven’t been enjoying the backseat of the car.”

“I mean forget sleeping in a bed,” Daisy says, “how long has it been since you had a real, nice shower? Or had clean clothes? Or actual hot food?”

Jemma rubs her stomach, groaning. “Don’t talk about food.” But there’s still so much of the house they haven’t explored so the possibilities…her stomach rumbles at the idea.

“Maybe Coulson can finally find his Twinkies.” Daisy grins.

“I’m sure he’s searching for them right now,” Jemma says.

“He can have the Twinkies,” Daisy says, “but I call dibs on this bed.”

Jemma gives her a playful shove. “Excuse you. We found this room together.”

Daisy lifts an eyebrow. “Looks like there’s room for two,” she says.

Okay so she’s feeling bold here in this bedroom, in an actual house, where she doesn’t feel like she has to be afraid for her life at this exact moment.

Jemma smiles at her. “So it would seem,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “I’m glad that our paths crossed. You know…safety in numbers and all that.”

Daisy nods. “Oh, of course.” But she’s smiling and so is Jemma and maybe it’s not so terrible after all, to be here after the world has ended on a really comfortable bed in a giant house with Jemma here beside her. “You know, I’m-”

The sound of floorboards creaking immediately causes Daisy to fall silent. She and Jemma both sit up in unison, looking toward the open bedroom door. Her heart is already hammering in her chest and she immediately misses the way she had felt just seconds before: safe and content and a little like she was falling in love with the woman lying beside her.  

Now none of that stuff really matters, seeing as there’s a possibility they’re about to die a horrible zombie related death.

It could be nothing, of course. Could just be Coulson or Ace. But Ace is never quiet, at least, not quiet enough to sneak down the hallway.

Daisy slips off the bed and Jemma follows suit, both of them reaching for their weapons of choice: Jemma, the gun she always keeps within reach; Daisy, the baseball bat she’d left leaning against the wall.

They step into the hallway just as the zombie rounds the corner and they both scream in surprise, though the noise is quickly drowned out by the firing of Jemma’s gun. The bullet catches the zombie in the chest and it stumbles backward, snarling.

“Double tap!” Daisy says, hefting her bat in case Jemma needs backup. “Don’t forget.”

Jemma rolls her eyes at her before leveling her gun at the zombie and pulling the trigger. The bullet lands neatly between the eyes and the zombie drops to the ground.

“Nice shooting.” They whirl around toward the unfamiliar voice. “I thought I’d cleared-”

Further words are silenced by another crack of the gun and the thud of another body hitting the floor. The groan that escapes this particular zombie sounds more human than zombie-like and Daisy is pretty sure she’s never heard a zombie talk before and…

“Oh my god…” Daisy furrows her brow as she steps closer to the figure on the ground. “Is that Tony Stark?”

Jemma’s eyes go wide and she looks down at the gun in her hands, a guilty look crossing her face. “Did I just kill Tony Stark?”

Carefully, Daisy nudges the body with the edge of her baseball bat. Nothing. “I…I think you might have.”

“Oh my god.” Jemma presses a hand to her mouth, standing beside Daisy and studying the body. “Where did he come from? Why is he dressed…like a zombie? That’s zombie makeup, right?”

Daisy’s eyes grow wide. “This must be Tony Stark’s house!” She grins. “We must be in Tony Stark’s house! Holy shit! No wonder everything is so nice.”

“I think you’re missing the point here.” Jemma points back to Tony Stark, former billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist. “I shot Tony Stark.”

Daisy pats Jemma on the shoulder. “He could have been a zombie,” she points out. “You were just trying to save our lives. From Tony Stark! Holy shit!” She grabs Jemma’s hand, tugging her back in the direction of the staircase. “Let’s tell Coulson. He’s going to get a kick out of this.”

Jemma rolls her eyes but allows Daisy to drag her down the stairs. She feels bad for the whole Tony Stark snafu but she definitely doesn’t regret any of the things that have brought her to this moment, with her hand in Daisy’s, facing down the end of the world with her, and a former school teacher, and an eight-year-old boy.

Honestly, Jemma figures, there are worst ways to spend the end of the world.  


	2. Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scream -Fraida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of "prequel" to the Scream AU stories I've been posting over on tumblr. Honestly I'll take any excuse to write in this AU okay. I love it.

**Movie:** Scream

**Soundtrack Recommendation:** ["First Cool Hive" by Moby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cwip3p1tQI)

 

Ophelia closes her eyes and concentrates on one thing at a time. First: the sound of her heart beating. She can feel her heart, pounding quickly, unsteady in her chest. Second: the whistle of breath through her teeth. Her lungs are still doing their job, keeping her alive. Inhale. Exhale. Third: the knife in her hand, glued to her palm, sticky with blood.

She does not want to concentrate on the fact that the blood is hers. That her hand is numb, her fingers barely holding the knife. Her shirt is sticking to her body from sweat and blood, her legs wobbly and weak beneath her. She doesn’t want to focus on the spots starting to dot her vision or the way that her head is starting to spin, the way it does when she’s had too much coffee or maybe a little too much to drink or not enough water and she’s-

Spiraling. She’s spiraling.

Focus, Ophelia, focus.

Inhale. Exhale. Through the teeth. Ophelia opens her eyes, swallows, steps forward.

Everyone is the house is dead, she’s certain of this. It’s just her and Will. She knows this house well, she’s been here so many times before. Sleepovers with Stephanie; picnics in her backyard; playing make believe in her basement. Stephanie is dead. But still, she knows the house.

So does Will, of course. But still, Ophelia thinks she can make it to one of the doors, that maybe when she tries this time he won’t see her, won’t notice, won’t stop her. At least he’s lost the costume, that horrible, terrible mask that he’d been wearing earlier when he’d chased her up the stairs, when she’d put up a hand to protect her face, when the knife had-

_Focus, Ophelia,_ she tells herself again. _Focus._

Slowly, Ophelia eases open the downstairs bathroom door. Inhale. Exhale. And…step outside. There’s no one here. No one to help her. No one but her and him.

The party had broken up earlier in the evening. Most of the people had gone off galivanting through town, chasing the rumors of a corpse on the football field and there had been only a few of them left in the end. Before…before.

Ophelia steps down the hallway, ignoring the breadcrumb trail of blood she’s leaving behind her. Soon she’ll be out of here. Get the keys, get into a car…soon someone will help her. She’ll find a doctor and he’ll-

Focus. Through the teeth.

Ophelia rounds the corner in the living room and someone grabs onto her elbow. She screams, putting up her hands instinctively like she’d done earlier when Will had done the same thing, when he had grabbed her and lifted the knife. She lifts her own hand but her fingers are too weak to hold the knife and it’s easily knocked free. She swings, open-palmed, weak, but the person grabs her wrist, stills her hand.

But he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hurt her. Doesn’t plunge the knife into her side or chest. The hands just hold onto her, loose around her wrist, tight on her elbow. Desperate.

It takes Ophelia a second to realize the person holding her is not Will. It’s…she squints her eyes. “Leopold?”

Maybe she’s seeing things. She hasn’t ever seen him outside of school before, never imagined he’d be at a party thrown by Stephanie Malick. She thinks he might be friends with Mack…though she’s seen Mack outside in the backyard…seen that he was…he can’t help her now. Can’t help them.

But the face is Leopold’s and he nods. His coloring is terrible and his forehead is beaded with sweat. And there’s the blood, of course, the blood.

“What’s going on?” Leopold says, his voice choked with fear and confusion and the same wild terror she can see in his eyes. That he can probably see in hers. “I was…there’s someone in the house…”

Ophelia nods, managing to resist the urge to stare at him like he’s lost his mind. Clearly there is someone in the house. “It’s Will, he-”

And then he’s there. And then…then there are three.

What happens after that is a blur, one Ophelia will be asked to recall time and time again, over and over: to the doctors, the police, her father, lawyers. Later, to reporters and newscasters. And she’ll never be sure, exactly, what does happen.

She’ll never be quite sure of the words that are said. Only that Will says them with a smile, a glint in his eyes, as he promises that he will kill them both.

She’ll never be quite sure of what makes Leopold stand up straighter, step in front of her, try to stop Will. Only that he doesn’t, that Will drives the knife into his stomach, that he brings Leopold to his knees and stands over him to finish the job.

She thinks there might be more. Thinks there might be things in between: fear and desperation and feeling like prey trying to hide from the predator. But it all comes back into sharp focus in that moment, in that instant. Watching Will, watching the knife, watching Leopold fall.

And she’ll think that maybe it was that moment that was the end for her, the moment where she would give him no more ground.

As she watched Will raise the knife, as she knew that one more downward arc would be all it took to kill Leopold and leave her alone again. And she knew, without a doubt, that she would not let herself be alone again.

Later, the police will assure her that she is a hero.

In that moment, Ophelia only feels terrified. She doesn’t feel like herself at all as she lunges forward, as she takes the knife, as she plunges it into Will’s chest.

They both fall to the ground and Ophelia rolls off Will, winded and aching everywhere, her blood moving through her like fire. But she only wants to move, wants to get away. The door is so close now, she can see it, can’t understand why she couldn’t before.

But Leopold is there, bleeding and looking at her and she knows…she knows…

She doesn’t want to be alone.

Ophelia crawls toward him instead, reaches for his hand. “It’s okay,” she lies. She can see Will, inches away, still gasping for breath with the knife in his chest. His eyes are on them, his gaze murderous and determined. “It’s okay.”

And it is because the door is opening now and Ophelia thinks she must be seeing things because she’s been praying all night for the police to arrive, for someone to come, and now they have and it seems too good to be true. Seems impossible.

It seems like the only thing she can do is squeeze Leopold’s hand and watch as Will moves toward them again, watches as the knife-

The officer fires and Will goes down and this time he doesn’t get up again.

This time there’s nothing to do but stare at him, uncomprehending.

The officer kneels down beside them and Ophelia looks at him and it seems absurd to focus on his nametag, to trace the curves of his name -Coulson- with her eyes but she can’t seem to focus on anything else.

“It’s okay,” Officer Coulson says, the same words that she’s been telling Leopold, “you’re safe now.”

Leopold groans, nodding, holding Ophelia’s hand loosely in his own.

And when Ophelia slumps over, her head buzzing, her eyes blurry and full of black spots, Officer Coulson is there to catch her.

* * *

 

When she wakes up again, her father is there.

Ophelia’s head is still fuzzy, her eyes still unable to focus. But she can feel it: the curve of the knife through her body, the blood sticking to her skin, the scream in her throat.

And she can see…

And she knows…

And she’s alone again and she wants…

“Where is he?” She gasps and she can tell that she startles her father because he nearly jumps out of his chair, suddenly awake, wide-eyed and confused.

Her father comes to her side, reaches for her hand -the one not wrapped in bandages- and Ophelia can see that his eyes are full of tears, that there are a few on his cheeks. “Ophelia,” he says softly, putting a hand to her face. “Ophelia-”

Ophelia shakes him away, her eyes wide, heart hammering.

She tries to concentrate on three things: her heart, her breathing, her…her…something is missing…something is…

“Where is he?” Ophelia asks again and her breath is coming too quickly, much too quickly, and she can’t focus, can’t concentrate. “Where is he? Where?”

Her father closes his eyes and she watches the tears slide down his cheeks. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Ophelia,” her father assures her. “He’s gone. The officers-”

Ophelia shakes her head. “No, no,” she tells him. “No…that’s not…no.”

“Ophelia, I promise,” her father says. “Please just-”

“No!” Ophelia looks at her father, trying to focus. To remember.

_Focus, Ophelia_.

Heartbeat. Breath. And- “Leopold,” Ophelia says. “Where is Leopold.”

It takes her father a second to understand, to realize what she wants. “Oh. The other boy.” He smiles faintly, brushing her hair away from her face. “You saved his life.”

_Saved his life_. Ophelia feels some of the panic drain out of her. Leopold is okay. He’s alive. He’s here, somewhere.

Ophelia sighs, laying back down against the pillows, unable to sit up anymore, unable to remember what she was trying to do in the first place.

“I want to see him,” Ophelia tells her father. “Please. I want to see him.”

Her father nods, continues to stroke her hair, to squeeze her hand. “Okay, okay, soon,” he assures her. “Just…relax. Just rest.”

Ophelia nods, closing her eyes. Leopold is here.

She isn’t alone.

It makes it easier to drift off again.  


	3. A Nightmare on Elm Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Nightmare on Elm Street -Skimmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little short because, fittingly enough, I'm exhausted and really want to go to sleep! 
> 
> Also this is one horror movie I've always wanted to do a long AU for so I didn't want to get too carried away here. Anyways, I'm still sad Wes Craven is dead and this is equally inspired by the original film and the remake (which I loved okay?!)

**Movie** : A Nightmare on Elm Street

**Soundtrack Suggestion:** ["All I Have to Do is Dream" by The Everly Brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=geLbe9QDfAA)

 

Jemma isn’t aware that anyone is listening. Honestly, she’s not aware of much these days. She hasn’t been sleeping, not as much as she should be. She’s hardly sleeping at all, truthfully. She’s too afraid to sleep.

Fitz is looking at her with concern etched on his features. Though, Jemma thinks, maybe concern isn’t exactly the right word.

He’s looking at her like he thinks he’s witnessing her mental breakdown.

“Maybe I am going crazy,” Jemma says softly, out loud, reading the look on his face. “Maybe that is what’s happening. Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

Fitz’s expression softens and manages to look panicked at the same time. “No, I don’t think…” He looks guilty, like he hadn’t anticipated her to read the thoughts running through his mind. “You said yourself you haven’t been sleeping, maybe-”

“You’re not going crazy.”

Jemma turns around toward the voice, unfamiliar and unexpected. She hadn’t realized anyone else was listening to this conversation, the whispered exchange of words in a corner of the library while everyone else goofed off or used their free period to make it seem like they were studying when in reality it was just a chance to send texts or sneak a nap.

A nap. Jemma would love one of those.

But someone _has_ been listening. Daisy Johnson is standing there behind them, close enough to be awkwardly in their space, seeming wobbly and unsteady. Looking at her, Jemma thinks, is a little bit like looking in the mirror. The same dark circles under her eyes, the same sickly pallor to her skin. The look of someone who hasn’t been sleeping.

“You’re not crazy,” Daisy says again.

Jemma swallows. “What do you mean?”

Fitz shifts, uncertain, moving slightly closer. But Jemma ignores him, studying Daisy instead. They’ve hardly ever spoken and have definitely never spoken about anything serious. But Daisy’s face looks deathly serious now, her eyes boring into Jemma’s like coals.

“The dreams,” Daisy presses, pursing her lips together, “I’ve seen him too.”

Jemma leans forward in her seat, her eyes widening. “You have?”

Fitz narrows his eyes, looking at Daisy distrustfully. “Hold on,” he says, “you can’t…let’s not get carried away.” He sighs and says, slightly under his breath, as though he expects that he can speak to Daisy and not have Jemma overhear, “You’re going to make things worse.”

Daisy ignores him. “The man,” she presses. “It always smells like fire. And his face is scarred and burned-”

Jemma shudders, feeling a sudden prickling of heat spread across her skin and the nape of her neck. It’s the way she always feels when she slips into the dreams: like her pores are shrinking, her lungs tightening, the sticky, pervasive smell of smoke clinging to her hair and clothes. And the certainty, that tingling in the back of her scalp, telling her that if she turns around _he_ will be right there behind her.

Jemma can’t help but glance over her shoulder. Of course, there’s no one there.

Even in the dreams, he’s never there behind her either.

But he’s there, she knows, lurking in the shadows, in the smoke, in the warm, flicking light that dances across the walls.

Daisy swallows, her eyes settling to the space behind Jemma as well, though she doesn’t seem reassured to find the spot empty.

“He’s the one who killed Ward,” Daisy says and even as the words send a shiver down Jemma’s spine, she realizes that she knows, with certainty, that they are true.

She’s seen Ward in her dreams, since his death. She should have known he was somehow connected to this.

“And,” Daisy continues, “he won’t stop there.”

Jemma shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she says. “It’s just a dream. How-”

“Exactly,” Fitz interjects quickly, “it’s all just a dream. How could a dream possibly kill someone? And Ward killed-”

Daisy shakes her head, pulling up the sleeve of her jacket. There’s a bandage wrapped tightly around her forearm and despite Jemma’s half-hearted, instinctive protests, she unwraps the gauze. Beneath are four slashes, thin and deep, down the center of her arm.

Jemma’s lips part in an expression of shock, of disgust.   

But, somehow, she’s not surprised. She’s seen those marks in her dreams, gouged in the walls of the basement where she always finds herself trapped and desperate. She’s heard the sound of the metal pieces as they rub together, always behind her, just out of sight.

And she’s seen the tears in the back of her own clothing, where the man had grabbed for her in her dream, the razor-thin claws on his hand hooking against her sweater as she tried to pull away.

She had gotten away. And she’d woken up with the evidence that maybe she hadn’t really escaped at all.

Jemma had thrown the sweater away, buried it deep in the bottom of the garbage can at the corner of the driveway. But she hasn’t slept much since that moment.

“For whatever reason he’s after us,” Daisy says, pulling her sleeve back down over the marks. “Some of us.” She looks almost warily at Fitz, as though she can’t quiet figure out how he’s lucky enough to be avoiding these dreams.

The nightmares.

Jemma scrubs a hand over her face, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t understand,” she says softly. “I don’t understand any of this. It doesn’t make sense. It defies science! Dreams have never-”

“You know I’m not wrong,” Daisy persists. “How else can you explain that we’re seeing the same thing? You haven’t been sleeping.” It’s not a question when she says it. “We aren’t the only ones either. I’ve been doing some research.”

Jemma looks at her. “This is crazy,” she says softly. “What are we supposed to do?”

Daisy purses her lips, furrowing her brow. She doesn’t have an answer for that and it’s nearly enough to make Jemma burst into tears. All she wants to do is sleep. It’s been _days_ since she’s slept for more than twenty minutes at a time and…he’s starting to appear in even those brief snatches of time too.

“What are we supposed to do?” Daisy questions, a slight smirk on her face. “Never sleep again, I guess.”

Jemma narrows her eyes, about to reprimand Daisy for a joke that’s far from funny.

Something in Daisy’s eyes stops her from actually saying anything. Because she can tell that Daisy isn’t trying to tell a joke at all.


	4. Let the Right One In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Right One In -Fraida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm a day late with this but...enjoy?

**Movie:** Let the Right One In

**Soundtrack Recommendation:** [Trained and Steady by Michael Giacchino ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OxX3vv8MyK0&index=26&list=PL64qIHlDc3FiCRz_dNNdojYNueZbjnLYl)

 

If he were feeling more -or possibly less, depending on how you look at it- maudlin he might make note of how his blood really does look pretty spotting the perfectly white snow.

He’s left a trail behind him, like breadcrumbs, tracing his walk from the road and to the back of his apartment complex, where there’s, thankfully, no one around to see him in such a sorry state. Fitz pauses, glancing over his shoulder, just to make sure. There’s nothing behind him but the glistening snow, the quiet of the complex at dusk. And the splotches of blood he’s left in his wake.

Everything is quiet, peaceful and beautiful in this small sliver of time between afternoon and nightfall. In winter, that time seems to bleed through most of the day, as though everyone is just waiting for the sun to set and the stars to be visible in the sky once more. When Fitz tips his head back to look above him, he can see his breath pluming in front of his face, crystalizing there for the briefest of moments before it disappears completely.

That would be pretty too, he thinks, if it didn’t hurt so damn much to breathe.

Fitz finishes his slow, shuffling walk through the perfect snow. The playground on the complex’s grounds sits empty and unused, as always. Not a single flake of snow is disturbed, a reminder that he’s one of the youngest people in the entire complex and in three weeks he’ll be seventeen years old.

But still. The only teenager around.

Or…he used to think so anyway.

Fitz smiles to himself, ignoring the pain that throbs in his lip and up to his temple. He can taste his blood against his teeth and on his tongue but he ignores that too, reaching for the item sitting, waiting for him on one of the swings. A Rubix Cube, the top dusting with a faint layer of snow. Fitz tries not to let disappointment slip into his body at the feel of the cold plastic in his fingers. It’s obviously been here a while.

He should have been here earlier. Would have been, if Werner and the rest of the assholes hadn’t-

“You’re late.”

Fitz whirls around, startled, at the sound of the voice behind him. He nearly drops the Rubix Cube but manages to avoid that particular embarrassment. He smiles, unable to help himself, certain he paints a ghastly sight with his bloody lip and the cut on his forehead.

Any time he sees Ophelia, his first thought is to smile. He can’t help himself.

Ophelia is standing there a few yards away, dressed in a sweater that doesn’t seem thick enough to keep out the cold that is turning the tip of Fitz’s nose numb. She seems unbothered in her sweater and jeans, her face a picture of concern as she studies him. “What happened, Leopold?” She questions, tilting her head as she looks at him.

Fitz shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing,” he says quickly. He holds up the Rubix Cube. “I guess you solved this one too.”

Ophelia nods, smiling ever so slightly. She moves through the snow closer to him, her boots leaving tracks in the sparkling snow. “It took a little while longer,” she tells him, her tone slightly teasing. A little while longer, Fitz thinks, might be a whole twenty seconds.

Fitz sits on the swing, ignoring the bite of the cold plastic, and Ophelia sits in one of the swings beside him. The chains creak under their sudden weight, the only sound aside from the distant hum from the road.

“I’ll have to find another one,” Fitz tells her, wrapping his gloved fingers around the metal chains of the swing. “Really come up with something to stump you.”

Ophelia is still studying him closely, the way that she always does. Her eyes are so beautiful, something that never escapes Fitz’s attention. He doesn’t mind being the sole focus of her gaze, though he still has yet to figure out what it is about him that is so interesting to her. So worth her study.

Ophelia reaches out a hand, her fingers bare as they brush against his swelling cheek. “What happened?”

Fitz shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “Just some assholes from school. Idiots. You should be glad you don’t have to go.”

Though, Fitz thinks, he wouldn’t mind so much if she did. It might be nice to actually have a friend around to keep him company. Ophelia is homeschooled, something he learned about her in one of their first meetings here, on this empty and abandoned playground. She lives in the building across from his, though he never sees her unless she’s here, waiting to see him. Fitz isn’t exactly going to complain.

Ophelia frowns, her brow knitting. “Who is it?”

Fitz shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know them,” he mumbles. Then, for some reason, he feels compelled to give her their names, a list of the people who have made his life hell since middle school. Boys who have yet to grow out of the stage where they think pulling the wings off butterflies is the most amusing thing in the entire world.

“Seriously, Ophelia,” Fitz says with a shake of his head, “I’m fine. It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about them.”

It feels wrong, somehow, to be sitting here with Ophelia in the last, lingering seconds of dusk and fill the air with the names of the people who torment him.

Ophelia relents, giving herself a little push with the toe of her shoe. “What do you want to talk about?” She asks him.

_You_ , he wants to say. Fitz manages to resist the urge.

So instead they talk about nothing at all: a book she read that day, things that happened at school. The stars. The snow. The everlasting winter and the shortening days. Hypothetical plans and hopes for a weekend that is only one day away.

Fitz can’t help but feel like he’s never had a better conversation in his life.

Though, honestly, he’s usually left feeling that way when he and Ophelia finally say their goodbyes.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Fitz learns, upon arriving at school, is that Werner and all his idiot friends are dead.

He feels guilty when his first emotion is relief.

The second is shock. It seems surreal, impossible, that people he goes to school with, people he knows, are suddenly dead. No more. Gone from his life.

Gossip quickly answers any questions that Fitz might have had, though he’s not sure how much is true and how much is just exaggeration.

Werner and his friends, the gossip says, were mutilated. Savaged, as if by some wild animal. Though, of course, there are no wild animals around her.

For some reason, Fitz’s first thought upon hearing that is Ophelia.

He can’t get her out of his head after that.

Ophelia is waiting in their usual spot when he makes his way to the playground and Fitz feels his heart leap in his chest, the way it always does when he sees her. Despite the thoughts running through his mind, the mental images of Werner and his friends torn apart and bleeding in the snow, he smiles.

Ophelia turns her head and Fitz can see fat snowflakes caught in her hair. He doesn’t waste time saying, “Werner and his friends were killed last night.”

“Oh?” Ophelia tilts her head, considering. “Good.”

Fitz knows he should protest, that he should argue with her and tell her that this is not good, that they were still people, teenagers, that they didn’t deserve-

“Now,” Ophelia continues, “they can’t hurt you anymore.”

As he sits on her beside the swing, Fitz feels certain of the thought that had slipped through his mind earlier that day. He lays his gloved hand over hers, wishing there wasn’t anything between them, wishing he could feel the touch of his skin against hers.

“What are you?” Fitz asks, surprised by the words that come out of his mouth, surprised that he manages to say them without shivering.

Ophelia lifts her eyes, her gaze meeting his. Her fingers tighten around his and suddenly Fitz is certain it doesn’t matter how she answers his question.


	5. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ring -Skimmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another story that is late! Sorry! But hopefully enjoy anyway? 
> 
> Anyways I absolutely love The Ring and think it's one of the greatest "horror" movies of all time, though I feel like it has more of a mystery/noir feel to it than anything else. The overall ambiance and cinematography of the movie is absolutely gorgeous and I truly think The Ring is such a masterpiece!

**Movie:** The Ring

**Soundtrack Suggestion:** ["The Ring Main Title" by Hans Zimmer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARANSQ15Vrk)

 

Jemma studies Daisy’s reflection in the mirror, watching her girlfriend as she runs a brush, slow and steady, through her hair. Daisy’s expression is cloudy and distant, almost unfamiliar in its solemnity. For some reason it causes a chill to skitter down Jemma’s spine and it’s suddenly impossible to swallow around the lump in her throat.

Jemma sets the brush aside and turns to face Daisy. “What’s wrong with you?”

Not exactly tactful but straight to the point.

Daisy looks over at her, startled. As though she’d forgotten Jemma was even there. “What?”

Jemma tries to swallow again, tries to ignore the slow swelling of uncertainty and fear that’s growing in her stomach. She slips into bed beside Daisy, who is still sitting leaned against the headboard, where she’s been for the past ten minutes. “Daisy,” Jemma says softly, taking her hands. “What’s wrong? You’re acting strange. I’m-” _Worried_ , Jemma wants to say but can’t bring herself to admit it.

Daisy doesn’t say anything. The sound of the rain, steady now for the past two days, fills the room. Finally, her eyes focus on Jemma. “Remember that story I’ve been working on? The one with the-” The words catch in her throat.

Jemma’s brow furrows. “The teenagers?” She suggests gently, giving Daisy’s hands a squeeze.

Three days before, Daisy had been assigned a story about two local teenagers who had reportedly died from shock. It had been, presumably, a short assignment -tragic but just a blurb. She knows that it’s been weighing heavily on Daisy’s mind, that she hasn’t been able to shake it.

Daisy blinks and looks at her. “I…yeah.” She pulls one of her hands away from Jemma’s, worrying her nail between her teeth. Her eyes slide back toward Jemma’s. “But there’s more…I think…I think I’m going crazy.”

That shiver of fear moves down Jemma’s spine again and she can feel it in her throat, thick and cloying. Mostly because Jemma can see that Daisy believes her words.

“Daisy,” Jemma says softly, “what do you mean there’s more?”

Daisy swallows. “I started looking into this story, the one about the kids. And I talked to some of their friends, people they went to school with, stuff like that. They told me about this…this…tape.”

Jemma purses her lips, trying to resist the urge to grab Daisy and shake her. “A tape? What do you mean?” She wants to ask again, to scream it: _what is_ wrong _with you!_ And, more importantly, how she can make it better.

“Okay, listen, I know it’s crazy. I _know_. But listen,” Daisy says. “There’s this tape. And apparently when you watch the tape you die seven days later. And that’s…those kids, they watched it. And then they showed the tape to their friends, the ones that I talked to. After you watch the tape you-”

“Daisy! Stop!” Jemma holds her hand tightly, squeezing painfully. “Stop! Listen to yourself! You’re making yourself crazy! A tape that kills you after you watch it? That’s some sort of urban legend, there’s no such thing, no scientific basis for-”

“I’ve seen it,” Daisy says softly and Jemma’s protests die on her lips. “I’ve watched it. I found a copy and I watched it and it was just like they said with the phone call and the weird images and now I’m seeing all these strange things and…I don’t know how to stop it or what to do or-”

Jemma feels her eyes start to widen, fear growing taunt in her stomach. A trickle of blood is winding out of Daisy’s nose and Jemma can’t help but whisper Daisy’s name softly. Daisy reaches up, brushing the blood away with her fingers, looking at the sticky wetness with resignation and horror.

“See?” Daisy says quietly. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jemma puts her arms around Daisy, pulling her close against her chest. She holds onto Daisy tightly, closing her eyes, resting her cheek against the top of Daisy’s head. She wants to assure her that everything is fine, that the idea of watching a tape and then dying a week later is not only ludicrous but impossible. But she doesn’t say anything at all, holding Daisy tightly.

 

* * *

 

“A tape that kills you when you watch it?” Fitz repeats, not bothering to hide his amusement. He rolls his eyes. “Jemma, that sounds ridiculous.”

Jemma nods, following Fitz out of the hospital room and down the hallway toward the lab. Even the promise of studying results, data and samples can’t distract her. “I know,” Jemma says quietly, “I know.”

But still. She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since Daisy mentioned the tape to her the day before.   

“I know,” Jemma says again, looking at Fitz. “But regardless, Daisy _definitely_ believes in it. And she’s different…she looks…”

Fitz shakes his head. “She’s doing is to herself, Jemma,” he says, not unkindly. “You know how she is. She gets fixated on something and she can’t get it out of her head.”

It’s easy for Fitz to say, she thinks. He hasn’t seen Daisy, hasn’t seen the change in her. Jemma frowns and Fitz stares at her. “Jemma, seriously. A tape that murders you when you watch it? That causes people to die of fright-”

“I’ve had several cases like that.” They both turn, surprised, in the direction of the speaker. Jemma feels a twinge of embarrassment at the idea that Dr. Weaver has overheard their conversation. “Odd cases, mostly teenagers actually.” Dr. Weaver looks up from her tablet. “No apparent cause of death, aside from fear.” She clucks her tongue. “Tragic.”

Jemma gives Fitz a pointed look, but he only shakes his head without comment. She looks back at Dr. Weaver. “Could I see these reports?”

 

* * *

 

When Jemma returns home, the apartment is silent and bathed in grey light from the overcast sky. She shakes the rain from her hair, hanging up her jacket. “Daisy?”

No answer.

Jemma moves toward the living room, but there’s no Daisy there either. Just evidence that Daisy _has_ been here recently: the table is covered with articles and printouts and photographs. There’s a newspaper headline that reads _More Mysterious Teen Deaths_ and Jemma reads enough to ascertain that the article printing that morning is about the deaths of two more teenagers and that they knew the teens who died earlier in the week.

The photographs are odd, chilling and disjointed. Beaches and cliffs, skeletal trees, empty mirrors, and ladders to nowhere.

And, in the middle of it all, a video tape.

Jemma reaches for it, unable to stop herself. She carries it to the entertainment center, kneels down, and pushes the tape into the VCR.

The tape defies description. Jemma feels like she can’t look away, can’t even consider taking her eyes off the screen, off the grainy images that are strung together without any logical sense or story. Jemma recognizes some of the images from the photographs on the table, but seeing them in motion fills her with a sense of dread that seems to settle in her mind as well as her stomach.

“What are you doing?”

Jemma jumps in surprise at the sound of Daisy’s voice. She looks over her shoulder at Daisy behind her, an expression of horror on her face.

“I-” Jemma glances back toward the screen, at the image of a well there on the television, standing ancient and alone in the middle of a lonely field.

Daisy crosses the room quickly, yanking the tape from the player, just as the images dissolve to static. She whirls toward Jemma, brandishing the tape. “Why would you watch this?” Her eyes fill with tears and Jemma can only gape at her. “ _Why_?”

Jemma shakes her head. “I…it’s not-”

Jemma’s phone, resting on the counter beside her keys, starts to ring. They both turn their heads in unison, staring at the blinking device. Jemma can feel her heart pounding wildly in her chest, fear suddenly heavy and slick on her tongue. When she reaches for Daisy’s hand, it’s already waiting for her.

“I didn’t think…” Jemma says quietly and when the phone finally stops ringing, the apartment feels far too silent.

Daisy reaches for her face, taking it in her hands. She presses her lips to Jemma’s forehead. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve been doing some research, trying to trace this thing. There has to be a way to beat it.”  

Jemma nods, covering Daisy’s hands with her own. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Let’s get started.”

 

[Bonus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkVlC2WgEwc)


	6. American Werewolf in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> American Werewolf in London -Fraida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay finally (!!) (possibly temporarily) back on track! 
> 
> Here is the obligatory werewolf horror story. It seems like there's been a depressing lack of werewolf movies in the genre recently. I wonder when things will cycle back and give us a good werewolf movie! I absolutely love werewolf stories!

**Movie** : American Werewolf in London

**Soundtrack Suggestion:** ["Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDpYBT0XyvA)

 

“Even if you do become some sort of hideous, terrible, hairy monster,” Ophelia says as she looks over at Fitz, “I’ll still love you. Promise.” She grins, carefree and full of amusement.

Fitz wishes that he could share those feelings. He wishes he could share her breezy, unburdened outlook. He feels like his entire world is crumbling down around him.

He turns the key in the ignition. “Don’t joke,” Fitz mutters, morosely.  

Ophelia’s smile falters slightly and she looks at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait…you can’t actually be serious.” Ophelia’s eyebrows lift. “Leopold, please tell me that you aren’t actually buying into local superstition.”

Fitz sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t look at Ophelia as he backs the car away from the house in front of them, pointing it back down the dirt road that lead them here in the first place. He’s had enough of this godforsaken countryside to last him a lifetime. However long that might be.

“You heard her,” Fitz says, hands tight around the steering wheel. “Whoever is bitten by a wolf when the moon is full-”

“You can’t actually believe a story like that!” Ophelia protests, shaking her head. “Leopold, don’t be ridiculous. We were attacked by a wolf or…a really big dog or something like that. Not a _werewolf_. You can’t actually believe that you’re becoming a werewolf.”

It sounds ridiculous. Fitz would be the first person to admit this. But there are so many things about the situation that he can’t ignore, so many signs that point to the only logical explanation being the one that the old woman had given him.

A werewolf. He hadn’t been bitten by a wolf but a _werewolf_ and now he was destined to become one as well.

“You said it yourself,” Fitz says, “it was a big dog. A wolf.” Ophelia nods, cautious. “So why do the police insist it was a person they found there at the scene?”

Ophelia has no answer for that. She turns her head, studying the countryside as it passes by. Fitz watches her out of the corner of his eye, trying to keep his focus on the road. He’s been especially wary since the accident, since he took his eyes off the road in front of them for a few seconds that night and the beast

_The werewolf_

had jumped in front of their car.

It’s daylight now, so Fitz is certain they have nothing to worry about. And the full moon is two days away…so maybe they have _everything_ to worry about.

Ophelia doesn’t look at him as she says, “There’s no such thing as werewolves.” Her voice is soft, somewhere between a pout and actual worry.

Fitz wants to agree. Everything in his mind wants to agree with what Ophelia is saying. He’s got a half dozen degrees, papers published in the top journals, teaching offers that could take them anywhere they wanted to go. So why is he entertaining the possibility of turning into a fairytale creature?

The bite on his arm starts to itch, the way it often does, especially when his thoughts stray to that night and the animal and the possibility of becoming an animal himself. It’s been nearly a month since that night, since the creature sunk its teeth into his forearm. The bite has yet to begin to heal and Fitz can feel it, burning and agitated, beneath the bandage.

Ophelia finally glances away from the window, her expression unreadable. “Are you serious?” She asks, her voice soft, no longer incredulous. “You’re actually going to listen to that woman?”

Fitz hesitates just a moment before shaking his head. “No,” he tells her firmly. “Not all of it…not…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t contemplate the advice that the woman had given him. He figures it’s best to ignore her warning, her assurance that he couldn’t control the beast within him and that it would be better to put the beast down before it had the chance to run free.

“I just…I’m dangerous now,” Fitz tells Ophelia. “Or…I will be. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ophelia purses her lips and once more her gaze is on the countryside that zips past the window. They’re the only car around for miles, the land flat around them, stretching out endlessly. “This is my fault,” she says softly.

So softly that Fitz thinks he might have misunderstood her. “What?” He asks, staring at the side of her head. “Your fault? Oph, what are you talking about?”

“I’m the one who told you to stop,” Ophelia says, making herself look back at him. “When you hit it. I told you to stop. If we had just kept on driving none of this ever would have…” Ophelia shakes her head. “This never would have happened if I hadn’t said anything.”

Fitz reaches out a hand, resting it on Ophelia’s knee. Her skin is cool beneath his palm; his own skin always seems to be running hot these days.

“Ophelia, don’t say that,” Fitz says quietly.

Ophelia doesn’t respond. He can easily imagine the thoughts running through her mind, the memories of that night nearly a month ago. How the beast had run into the road, how it had connected with the side of the car. Ophelia had protested when Fitz had tried to continue on, saying it was a dog, that it was hurt, that they needed to help it.

It hadn’t been a dog, at least, not a normal one. That had become apparent quickly enough. The creature had been large, impossibly so, and deadly even in its injured and dying state. It had lunged for Ophelia and Fitz can still remember the way the moonlight had glinted off the wickedly curved teeth that protruded from its mouth, how it had snarled in its desperation to tear into Ophelia’s flesh.

Fitz had stepped in between them, had been there to meet the teeth so that Ophelia wasn’t in the creature’s range. So that she would be safe. And he’d been certain that the beast was going to kill him then, that he hadn’t been able to save Ophelia after all. But they had saved each other, apparently. Ophelia had used the tire iron from the car, had forced the beast to release him, had finished the job the car had started.

Only…when the police had gone to the scene, they hadn’t found an animal at all.

“It’s my fault,” Ophelia says again, pulling Fitz out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Leopold. If you…if all of this is real…” She reaches for the hand on her knee, lifting it to her lips, kissing his knuckles. “Don’t leave me,” she says softly, closing her eyes and holding his hand to her cheek.

Fitz swallows, feeling the sting of guilt as it prickles through his body. He had thought about it; he’d been thinking about it since they left the woman, since they’d heard what she had to say about his future. Leaving would be easier than having to worry about Ophelia, than having to protect her from him.

“I won’t,” Fitz says, bringing the car to a stop so that he can lean over, so that he can kiss her. Ophelia puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer to her. “I won’t,” he says against her lips, “I promise.”

Ophelia nods, closing her eyes. Fitz slips a hand through her hair, pulling her closer to him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Fitz whispers, “if I really…I mean if all of this…”

Ophelia shakes her head. “You won’t,” she assures him. “You couldn’t.”

“I’ll be a monster,” Fitz tells her.

“No,” Ophelia assures him, kissing him again. “Never.”

Fitz wants to believe her. Wants to honor the promise that he made to her, wants to believe that it will be easy to keep.

But two nights from now, Fitz isn’t entirely sure what he’ll be able to believe. He can already feel the beast inside him starting to stir, waking up, growing restless. And no amount of promises or wishful thinking is going to change that.


	7. Jeepers Creepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeepers Creepers -Skimmons & Fraida

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'll just always be behind with these because writing is hard! But here we go! 
> 
> This fic features both Skimmons and Fraida because some horror movies are just better with friends! There will be several ficlets that feature both pairings because, you know, safety in numbers. 
> 
> I had a hard time deciding if I wanted to base this more on Jeepers Creepers or Jeepers Creepers II but in the end the original is always better, right? I remember seeing Jeepers Creepers in 8th grade and now my own students always talk about watching it and it's like everything comes in full circle, right? Anyways I absolutely love this movie!

**Movie:** Jeepers Creepers

**Soundtrack Suggestion:** ["Peek-a-Boo" by Siouxsie and the Banshees ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9J7ymRmrl0)

 

Jemma covers her mouth and nose with a hand, trying to force down the thickness in her throat that makes her want to retch. “It smells awful in here,” she grumbles, even though she feels like that goes without saying.

The rest of them look equally miserable: Daisy rapidly losing color in her cheeks as she holds her cell phone up, letting the light illuminate the place around them; Fitz still attempting to brush dirt and other debris off his clothes from his fall down the sewer tunnel and into the basement; Ophelia, trying to help him, while covering her nose with her other hand.

“It’s…it’s everywhere…” Daisy whispers and at first Jemma thinks she’s talking about the smell, heavy and pervasive in the air. The smell of rot, sickly sweet and ancient.

But then Jemma notices that Daisy’s eyes are focused on a point somewhere on the wall, the light from her cell casting shadows on the uneven sides of the curved, cave walls. Ophelia follows suit, adding the light of her phone to Daisy’s and gasps, a sharp, shocked sound.

It doesn’t take Jemma long to see why. The walls aren’t really walls at all. There are bodies, dozens and dozens and dozens of them, stuck to the walls. No, stuck isn’t quite the word, Jemma thinks. They’re _sewn_. Sewn to the walls, to one another; sewn in macabre patterns and combinations, making it difficult to see where one body ends and the other begins. And to see which parts of each body are missing.

Jemma focuses on breathing through her mouth, trying not to think too hard about the bodies sewn to the wall, the looks of terror frozen forever on their faces. She swallows down the need to retch, the way she had done throughout the first years of medical school, until it had become second nature to see a corpse and think nothing of it.

Of course, this is far from the sterile safety of a lab or classroom.

Ophelia turns her head away, squeezing her eyes shut briefly. “We shouldn’t have come down here.”

Jemma admires her for saying exactly what they’re all thinking, for taking that dig both at Daisy and Fitz.

Jemma is feeling just morbid enough to admit that the trip has been ill-fated since its start. Spending time with Fitz’s new girlfriend, even with the company of her own girlfriend to act as a buffer, is hardly Jemma’s idea of a good time. But driving back home with Fitz for spring break had made logical sense; they’ve done is every year since leaving home and it seems both stupid and obvious to suggest a new arrangement now. And besides, she hardly knows Ophelia, really, and she’s still slightly annoyed at Daisy’s comment about no one being good enough for Fitz regardless of who she is and…well here they are.

At the bottom of some demonic church basement.

Additional travelers aside, it had still seemed ill-fated from the start. They’d left later than Jemma had wanted and Fitz had realized he’d forgotten his school bag when it had been too late to turn around. And things had just felt…strange since they’d left the campus and the larger cities behind and made it to the backroads and they had been the only car on the road for miles and miles.

Until the van, of course.

The van that had nearly run them off the road, despite their best efforts to be courteous drivers and give the lunatic what he wanted, not that they’d really been able to figure that out. And if one brush with death wasn’t enough, Daisy had insisted that they do the opposite of an intelligent thing and investigate the strange building after seeing the driver as the aforementioned van throwing things down the very tunnel that Fitz decided to crawl into.

He had fallen. And they had gone in after him.

Because, honestly, what other choice had they had?

Aside from the choice to not have stopped to investigate a strange, abandoned building in the first place.

But Jemma figures everyone had been beyond listening to reasoning at that point

And now, here they are. In the basement of said building. Staring at the bodies on the wall.

Fitz turns away, putting an arm loosely around Ophelia’s shoulders, absently pressing a kiss to the side of her head. An apology, even as his eyes are still scanning the walls, taking in the bodies and bodies. “Christ,” he mumbles, “they’re on the ceiling too. There have to be hundreds.”

Jemma tips her head back and sees immediately that Fitz is right on both observations: the tapestry of bodies continues overhead and there have to be hundreds all together. Hundreds of bodies here.

Daisy lowers her phone and even though Jemma isn’t going to complain about not being able to see all the terrible wall décor, she does miss the faint glow of the light. “We have to find a way out of here.”

Which, Jemma thinks, should go without saying.

Ophelia leads the way, holding her phone in front of her as a guide, and the only sound is the shuffle of their feet on the dirt floor. Daisy reaches for her hand and Jemma holds it gratefully, threading their fingers together. “I’m sorry,” Daisy says softly. “Curiosity and cats and all that.”

Jemma makes a face. “Let’s not think about the rest of that adage,” she mutters. “I would rather not die in this place today.”

Daisy shivers; Jemma can feel it passing from Daisy’s body and into her own. “Don’t say that,” she says softly. “All those stories-”

Jemma frowns. “What stories?”

Daisy looks at her, surprised. “Aren’t you from around here?” She doesn’t give Jemma the chance to respond. “Don’t you know all those stories about all the people who have disappeared around here? For decades and decades just…vanished without a trace.”

Now it’s Jemma’s turn to shiver. She knows exactly what Daisy is talking about; she’s heard those stories as a kid, from her parents and classmates, warnings and ghost stories.

“Those are urban legends,” Fitz remarks from a few paces ahead. “Campfire tales.”

Ophelia scoffs. “Clearly not,” she mutters. “I think we found all those missing people.”

Jemma can’t help but look at the walls again, wondering if what Ophelia has said is true.

“We have to get out of here,” Jemma says again, another useless and obvious observation. “We have to tell someone-”  

She falls silent at the sound of the opening of a door. The creak of the hinges seems impossibly loud, the thudding of the door against the wall like a shot.

They stop in their tracks, huddled together as though safety in numbers will somehow save them from whatever is there in front of them, momentarily hidden in the shadows and hopefully unaware of their presence.

But the car…parked right outside…beside the tunnel.

Jemma closes her eyes, pressing her free hand to her mouth again. How stupid could they possibly be?

The sound of footsteps spurs them all into action. In true _Scooby Doo_ fashion, the two groups run in opposite directions but Jemma doesn’t dare waste time pulling Daisy after Fitz and Ophelia or doesn’t dare make even a whisper of sound to protest their splitting up. She just watches as Fitz and Ophelia disappear into the shadows, attempting to find something to take shelter behind.

She and Daisy do the same. Jemma tries to ignore the fact that they’re pressed against the wall, against the petrified bodies there. She just holds tightly to Daisy, unable to figure out which is them is shaking so much, figuring it’s the both of them.

The footsteps grow louder and the figure emerges, the same one that they saw earlier driving the van and then around the pipe that lead them to this basement. In the dim light of the basement, Jemma thinks that the figure doesn’t look human at all.

Its massive, towering over six feet, easy. It seems mismatched and misshapen, as though none of the body parts match up or fit the way they should. The back of its jacket is lumpy and uneven and the hat on its head tilted and askew. Jemma is grateful that she can’t see the thing’s face.

Jemma swallows, her knuckles white as she holds tightly to Daisy. She can only hope, pray, that the thing doesn’t stop, that it continues on, that somehow it doesn’t realize they’re here at all.

But, of course, it does stop. There directly in the middle of where Jemma and Daisy and Fitz and Ophelia are hiding.

It stops, but it doesn’t turn its head. Instead, it tips its head back slightly and…sniffs. Jemma can hear the deep intakes of breath, can see the faint outline of the nostrils working to pull in the smells. The figure does this several times, sniffing audibly, inhaling long and deep.

And finally, a single, smooth exhale. And then, it continues on, moving deeper into the basement and finally out of sight.

Daisy exhales, hiding her face against the crook of Jemma’s shoulder and neck. The seconds that pass by are agonizing slow, full of the possibility that the thing will return suddenly and without warning, just when they begin to move.

But finally, with agonizing slowness, Jemma and Daisy emerge from their hiding spot. And, as if spurred by some unspoken decision, so do Fitz and Ophelia. Jemma can see the thin outline of tears on the dirt and sweat on Ophelia’s cheeks and she doesn’t blame her at all, feels a little bit like crying herself.

They move without hesitation in the direction the figure had first emerged from, toward where they hope the door truly is located.

That, at least, seems to be on their side. The door is still wide open, the sun streaming in with the sounds of the outside and the blessedly fresh air. Jemma doesn’t think she’s ever been happier to be outside, to see the sun.

Fitz is pulling the keys out of his pocket even as they’re hurrying toward the car. Beside it, the van from earlier sits and there’s no doubt in Jemma’s mind that that thing knew they were down there.

“Hurry,” Jemma says, unable to help herself, even as Fitz fumbles to slide the keys into the ignition. “We have to get out of here.”

Fitz shoots her a look of mild irritation. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

The engine roars to life and Ophelia lets out a sigh of relief, slumping against the back of the passenger seat. The wheels spin on the gravel, kicking up rocks and debris as Fitz turns the car around, pointing them back toward the road.

Daisy turns around, watching as the church departs through the rear window. Her eyes seem fixated on a specific point, the intensity of her gaze making Jemma turn as well, though she’s certain what she’ll see when she looks.

The figure is there in the doorway, watching as their car speeds away from the church. Even in the blinding sunlight, it doesn’t look human.


	8. Stranger Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stranger Things -Skimmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of "sequel" to a Skimmons Stranger Things AU I wrote about a year ago. It doesn't necessarily follow up exactly but in my mind it's a sort of continuation. In the "first" story I had imagined it set in the present day but for this one I definitely imagined it set in the 1980s, the way the show is.

**Show:** Stranger Things

**Soundtrack Suggestion:** ["Should I Stay or Should I Go?" by The Clash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0iVO3MPEPo)

 

Jemma rushes through breakfast, trying not to make it look obvious that she’s desperate to be anywhere else. She doesn’t exactly do a good job of playing it cool. Her parents look at her and her father lifts his eyebrows. “It’s Saturday,” he points out, “there’s no school to rush off to.”

Jemma nods, swallowing the last bite of her breakfast, looking apologetic. “I know. I just…I want to be out there. Looking for Fitz.”

She feels slightly guilty for using Fitz as an excuse, though it’s not a lie, not really. She _does_ want to be out in the neighborhood, riding around town, looking for Fitz. Just thinking about it is almost hard to imagine, hard to comprehend, this fact that her friend has been missing now for forty-eight hours and she has absolutely no idea where he is.

But that’s not the entire reason she’s rushing through breakfast, desperate to get back to her bedroom.

Jemma pushes aside thoughts of Fitz and smiles. “I’ll try to-”

“No, we understand,” her mum assures her quickly, shooting her father a look like she can’t believe he would be so oblivious. “You can go, darling. Just please be safe.”

Jemma gets up, picking up her plate and glass. “I will.”

She carries the plate into the kitchen, rinsing it off and setting it into the sink to dry. A glance back toward the dining room shows her that her parents are deep in conversation, no doubt about Fitz and how she’s handling his disappearance. She grabs a few extra pancakes off the plate, wraps them in a paper towel and hurries up to her bedroom.

Daisy is waiting, mostly hidden in the closet, where Jemma left her thirty minutes before. “Sorry,” Jemma says as she sits down on the floor beside Daisy. “My parents are pretty insistent about family meals.” She hands Daisy the pancakes. “I brought you some food.”

Daisy studies the pancakes, looking at Jemma uncertainly. Jemma offers her a sympathetic smile. “They’re good, I promise.”

It’s been forty-eight hours since she’s had Daisy hidden in her room, since she went into the woods to find samples and subjects for her science project and found a person instead. A strange, not entirely normal person, but one that Jemma has started to come to understand all the same. She feels a twinge of guilt as she thinks about how quickly she’s gotten used to Daisy’s presence; Fitz has been missing for as long as she’s been hiding Daisy, as though she had to swap one for the other.

Daisy tears the pancakes into pieces, eating each piece slowly and methodically. As she eats, Jemma can’t help but study the mark on her wrist, those three numbers inked onto skin: 084. Daisy still has yet to elaborate on what they mean or where she got them. She assumes, of course, that they came from the same place Daisy did: a bad place. That’s the only thing Daisy will ever say about it.

Though Jemma has noticed other things as well: pinprick scars across Daisy’s wrists and in the crook of her elbow, the small half-moon burns on her temples and clavicle. Signs of experimentation, she’d be willing to wager, especially given the fact that Daisy was in a sheer, hospital style gown when she found her.

“We’ll leave here when you’re done,” Jemma tells her, talking mostly to fill up the silence that Daisy isn’t filling herself. “We can’t stay around here all day since my parents are home and-” She stops, thinking of Fitz. “There’s something else I need to do too.”

Daisy’s brow furrows, her expression sympathetic. “Something is wrong?”

Jemma shakes her head, even though she isn’t sure why she’s lying. “I’m just…worried about someone.”

“The person on the other end of that?” Daisy questions, pointing to the walkie-talkie sitting on Jemma’s nightstand.

The walkie-talkie has been on since Jemma first realized that Fitz had vanished. She’s been waiting, hoping, for him to contact her. They’ve had the walkie-talkies for years, since they were little kids and saw _Escape from Witch Mountain_ and figured it was the closest thing to actually having supernatural abilities to communicate with one another. It seems stupid, of course, to be nearly seventeen and still hanging onto the relic. But the walkie-talkies have stuck around, just like their friendship.

Until now.

Jemma looks at Daisy. “Yes,” she says because she can’t think of any lie to tell her or any reason to lie at all.

Once Daisy has finished the pancakes, Jemma instructs Daisy to sneak out the window, using the gutter to help get herself safely to the ground. Jemma goes downstairs, kisses her parents goodbye and retrieves her bike from where she keeps it parked in the garage. Daisy is waiting for her, as instructed, and climbs onto the foot pegs on the back of the bike.

Jemma speeds off down the road, walkie-talkie in the basket, Daisy’s hands firmly on her shoulders. She’s used to riding with Elena or even Ophelia on the back of the bike so she knows exactly how to take the turns, how hard she has to pedal to make it up the hills that lead from her neighborhood and to Fitz’s.

When they get to the Fitz household, there’s a police car sitting in the driving room. Daisy’s hands tighten on Jemma’s shoulders and she shifts her weight suddenly, as though preparing to hop off the bike. Jemma manages to slow them enough before Daisy’s sudden movement upsets the balance of the bike and sends them both tumbling into the yard.

“Daisy? What-”

“It’s not safe,” Daisy says again, her eyes focused on the police car in the driveway. “Not safe.”

Jemma looks at the car and then back toward Daisy. “It’s fine. It’s just…the police. They’re helping…trying to find my friend.”

Jemma gets to her feet, holding out her hand to pull Daisy up as well. Daisy hesitates for a moment before reaching for Jemma’s hand, getting to her feet. They don’t say anything as they walk through the grass and to the front door. Before Jemma can knock, the door swings open and Sheriff Coulson looks at them, surprised to find them on the front stoop.

“Oh, Jemma,” Coulson says, clearing his throat. “And-”

“My cousin,” Jemma says quickly. “From out of town. Have you heard anything about-”

Coulson’s expression softens and he shakes his head. “No, nothing yet.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “But we’ll keep looking. We’ll look until we find him.”

Jemma nods, swallowing. She wants to believe that’s true.

Coulson steps aside, gesturing for them to go inside. “I’m sure Ellen will be happy to see you.”

They trade places: Jemma and Daisy stepping into the living room while Coulson heads down the steps, moving toward the police car. Daisy watches him go warily but seems reassured when Coulson doesn’t spare her a second glance.

Fitz’s mother is sitting on the couch in the living room, her leg bouncing impatiently as she picks at her cuticles, staring off into the distance. She turns her head at the sound of Jemma offering up a greeting, smiling slightly. “Oh, Jemma, hello darling.”

Jemma goes to sit on the touch beside her, reaching for Ellen’s hand. She’s known the woman as long as she’s known Fitz, when they moved into town after Fitz’s father abandoned them and left with them little other choice but to relocate. The woman is like a second mother to her and it tears at her heart to see her like this.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jemma says softly, giving Ellen’s hands a squeeze. “We’ll find him.”

Ellen nods, seeming not to notice Daisy in the room with them, even as Daisy moves closer to the mantle, studying the framed pictures there. “Yes, I know,” she says absently. “He’s a good boy. He’ll come home.”

Jemma nods, figuring it’ll do none of them any good to point out that Fitz never would have left them without a word in the first place.

“Maybe he’s with his father,” Ellen says, to herself, as she’s said before, “maybe he’s with Alistair.”

Jemma nods again, though she’s watching Daisy. Daisy’s eyes are fixated on a photograph of Fitz, taken at the beginning of the school year. Her expression is troubled, her eyes faraway and tinged with fear.

Jemma gives Ellen’s hands another squeeze before pulling free. “Can I look in Fitz’s room? Just for a second?”

Ellen nods and Jemma isn’t honestly sure that she’s even processed the request. She catches Daisy’s eye, gesturing for her to follow as she moves from the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom that belongs to Fitz.

Jemma eases the door closed softly behind them and turns to Daisy. “Why are you looking like that?” She asks, impatient. “What’s wrong?”

“That boy, your friend,” Daisy says, “I know him. I’ve seen him before.”

Jemma’s eyes grow wide and she feels her mouth drop open. “You know him?” She repeats. “How…what? When did you see him? Where is he?”

Daisy frowns, pursing her lips. “He’s…in the Upside Down.”

Jemma can’t stop herself from grabbing Daisy’s shoulders, giving her a jerking shake. “Stop! Stop talking in riddles, damn it! I know you can talk so just make sense!”

Daisy doesn’t seem phased. “It’s the other world,” she says, “the Upside Down. I’ve been there but I…I escaped and…I think he went in my place.”

Jemma loosens her grip on Daisy’s shoulders but her hands linger, holding her in place. “The bad place,” she repeats quietly.

Daisy nods. “It’s a very bad place,” she assures Jemma solemnly.

“How do we get him back?” Jemma questions. “What do we do? We can’t just leave him there!”

Daisy frowns slightly, seeming to give the question serious thought. “I have some ideas. But it isn’t-”

“Safe,” Jemma interrupts quickly, waving a hand dismissively. “Yes, we’ve covered that. Now let’s talk about what we need to do to get Fitz.”


End file.
